


Humdrum

by lmritwock



Category: FolksSoul | Folklore
Genre: Comedy, Cute, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Faery World, Folklore, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Netherworld, One Shot Collection, Short Story, Slice of Life, Sweet story, Tea, Tsundere, Video Game, WIP, chapters, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmritwock/pseuds/lmritwock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keats expected to continue his days in solitude, but it seems Ellen has other plans. A growing collection of every day misadventures between the Messenger and her Guardian and the rest of the world. Set during post-game. An indefinitely updating collection of one-shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Showdown!!! at High Noon…or High Tea?!

**Author's Note:**

> Recently, I fell in love with Folklore. I wanted to see more happen between the characters so I've decided that if the game won't give me that, then I'll do it myself! Seeing the amazing work already in the archive, I wanted to contribute to the community and maybe help others satisfy their need to see more happen between the lovely cast of the game. Enjoy!

Ellen wrung her hands together, watching the tea kettle as the stopper began to quiver with rising steam. _Sssssss_ , it whispered. A bead of sweat formed on her forehead, but Ellen’s focus remained entirely on the silver kettle. 

_Sssssssssssssss_ , it whined impatiently. No, not yet. Patience. If she wanted to win, she had to wait. 

_SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS_ , it wailed bitterly. Within a blink, Ellen whisked the kettle by its handle off the stove (while wearing a proper oven mitt, of course; Ellen learned the hard way of its necessity) and poured the scalding water over the earl grey tea leaves in the two mugs set upon the kitchen counter. Her pièce de résistance: knitted cozies with cable stitches around each mug so they matched. She chose a fetching mustard yellow yarn that suited the autumn season on hers and befitting dark purple yarn for her Guardian. No detail went unnoticed – this was going to be her masterpiece. She tipped the kettle over, watching one drop ease it way out and into one mug. Then, ever so slowly, the other last drop shyly peaked its head out of the spout before diving into the adjacent mug. 

Perfect. Not a drop out of place. 

“Habetrot!” Ellen summoned, light and shadows swirling together as they solidified into the clunky timepiece. Wagging her mitt-clad hand at the Folk, she demanded, “Two minutes. Tell me when two minutes have passed.”

Giving a tinker-toy salute, Habetrot’s gears clinked and plunked in waltz time to grind the passing seconds into two whole minutes. A galley kitchen was no place for such a large, boxy Folk. Habetrot’s usually stoic face seemed to frown in disdain as the cramped quarters hindered the Folk’s usually twitchy and flighty movements. Ellen could certainly relate, she could touch the wall and the stove simultaneously if she just stretched out her arms; even she felt a little claustrophobic in her Guardian’s kitchen.  
She shook herself, slipping her oven mitt off and hanging it back on the wall. The sacrifice would be worth it. The chore had to be done or else, what sort of Messenger would she be? 

“I swear I’ll release some karma for you later, Habetrot,” she promised the Folk, squeezing her hands together over her chest. All that remained to do was wait. 

And wait.

Ellen eyed the mugs, willing herself not to wriggle the tea leaves around. Stealing a glance, she tried to track how much time was left on any of the numerous clocks populating Habetrot. She watched as one set of arms circumnavigated the roman numerals written in rapid succession followed by slower movements before entering another burst. What the clock was measuring, Ellen could not be entirely sure. Actually, even less than that. Ellen had no clue what was being measured, the rotations being far too irregular to be any sort of mortal time unit. Luckily, the process of trying to calculate an algorithm killed the last one minute and fifty second countdown.

Click, tock, tick! the last few seconds announced in an oddly offbeat rhythm. Habetrot shook, vibrating and bumping alternately against the counter and wall. Two minutes! 

Ellen plucked each mug’s tea strainer out, setting them aside in the sink. She and Habetrot peeked together, leaning in to peer at the contents. A perfectly amber liquid glistened inside the matching ceramic mugs. Wafting the steam with a wave of her hand, the scent of bergamot permeated the air.

“We did it,” Ellen cried, hugging her cog-work accomplice. Habetrot shook with excitement…oh wait. Ellen pressed the top of the Folk’s head, effectively snoozing the two minute alarm. 

“Whoops, I almost forgot about that. Thanks for your hard work, Habetrot.” She giggled as they shook themselves, the gears ending the last measure of their industrial song. 

Giving a quick wave, the Folk dissipated and Ellen was left alone. Not for long, she knew. While she couldn’t explain why, the Messenger was certain her Guardian would return soon. Grabbing the handles of each mug, she brought them into the “office” space and placed the purple-cozied mug by the unaccompanied typewriter. She took her usual seat across the desk, clutching her mug with both hands to collect the warmth seeping from it.

Perfect. She would definitely win this time. Blowing on the surface of her tea, she took a tentative sip and rolled it around her tongue. She grinned to herself, drumming her fingers along the sides of the mug. Definitely going to win this time. 

Now to wait.

Looking at the empty chair across from her, Ellen felt a little disconcerted. Even with the rare opportunity of having Keats’ Netherworld realm to herself, the place just felt a little…off without her snarky journalist Guardian around. Checking over her shoulder, she looked for any signs of movement at the door. Nothing yet. Turning back to face the desk again, she bit her lip. 

Well, it certainly _was_ a rare opportunity, wasn’t it? 

Ellen stood and walked over to the desk, circling around to the opposite side while scanning through the various notes scattered across it. She had never been on this side, the sensation of doing something wrong exciting her. There was something so appealing about messing with her Guardian and eliciting other emotions beyond the usual.  
How many emotions did he have exactly? She started to count with her hand not holding the mug; she only needed one after all. Indifference, skepticism…did journalistic curiosity and proceeding selective motivation count? Ellen counted them, giving him the benefit of a doubt. His default emotion seemed to be bitter or maybe rude? No wait, sassy. She nodded to herself. Definitely sassy. 

Five, what a tally. 

Oh! She recalled seeing something new across his face in the past year that they spent together since she took up her duties as a Messenger. It was hard to place, Ellen wriggling her five upheld fingers as she pondered the thought. Part of him looked troubled and the other part looked mildly inconvenienced, a mix between “Did I leave the tea kettle on the stove this morning?” and “Do Irish laws about murder still apply in a Netherworld realm based off of Ireland or can creative license of realm creation bypass those?” What sort of emotion was that? Confused? Upset? Conflicted? 

Ellen took a concerned sip from her mug, unsure what to make of the look. Perhaps it was like a stew, comprised of several ingredients not necessarily connected to each other. But an emotion called “a face that is much likened to a pot of good, varied stew” hardly rolled off the tongue. Looking around the desk, she snatched up a thesaurus – that had the graphic design of an over-zealous 1990s designer, she noted and reminded herself to buy Keats updated supplies the next time she dropped into the Netherworld – and thumbed through it. There! Ambivalence, yes, that was the word. The word likened to a pot of good Irish stew. 

Shutting it, she nodded with a sense of satisfaction. That makes it…She gasped. Six! She managed to increase Keats’ emotional output to six whole, distinct emotions. It was a definite improvement. And she would add a seventh by the end of the day: defeat. Especially after he had this tea.

Putting down her mug next to his, she sat in her Guardian’s chair and adjusted herself. The leather cushion was flatter in a peculiar U-shape that made it a little awkward for Ellen to properly settle.

“He really should take walks more often,” Ellen mused out loud as she wiggled into a comfortable position. “Sitting so often that the chair even matches his stubborn ways, I suppose it isn’t odd at all.” Although, she admitted to herself, the divot was certainly indicative that perhaps there were more…generous proportions to her Guardian’s posterior than his purple coat’s coverage would suggest. She giggled to herself, rolling the seat forward to get a better perspective of his desk.

The focal point of the desk, the typewriter, sat squarely on the surface. Ellen glanced at the door again before putting her hands on the well-worn keyboard, feigning the intense typing that always came from it when Keats was around. From this side of the desk, the otherwise unnerving silence of the room made much more sense. It gave her an itch to write something. 

Stifling a laugh, she began “Next front page headliner—” She paused, trying to find the right wording. Her face lit up and she quickly typed her idea, listening to the metal presses stamp into the blank sheet of paper. 

The door rattled. Ellen shot up from the seat with a start, her hands immediately coming flat to her sides as Keats opened the door.

Running a hand through his hair, Keats stepped into his apartment and closed the door behind him with a sigh. “Home”, at last. Well, it wasn’t much of a home as it was just a place to return to. Although there was an oddly welcoming scent in the air.

“Welcome back, Keats,” quipped a cheery voice. He blinked and looked up, snapping himself out of his reverie. 

“Ellen,” he said, processing the name and idea. She smiled at him, as bright as always.

He strolled in, nonchalantly making his way up to her and his desk. The issue wasn’t that he had his otherwise secure apartment broken into nor that it was Ellen that did so. He just struggled with the why of it. Although, he expected very little rationale when it came from Ellen so he wasn’t nearly as bothered as he should have been. He was…relieved, even. Which seemed a little out of place so he mentally packed that thought away and hid it somewhere in his memory where he hopefully would never have to consider it again. Speaking of out of place, Ellen was standing oddly stiffly and behind his desk, to boot. Glancing her up and down, Keats came to the conclusion that perhaps relief really was an inappropriate thought to cross his mind. The way she stood there, there was a word for that. Suspicious. 

“Should I know what you were doing at my desk or would you care to explain yourself before I make my assumption,” he offered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. She, however, seemed a bit distracted. 

And with his face, at that. Was there something on it? Mentally reworking his day, Keats tried to determine if some sort of detritus could have attached to him. Besides working as usual, Belgae did visit for a brief time and asked him for a midday stroll. Even though the distraction took away from his work, a break in the monotony was a little refreshing. His visitor never mentioned anything during their walk and certainly the cordial invisible man would have mentioned something. He did seem keen on keeping Keats engrossed in an analysis of Faery Realm literature and the role of half-lives spreading stories known as “folk tales”, but at no point was there any wind to blow stray dirt onto his face. Ellen was, nevertheless, very insistent on examining his face. Suspicious, indeed.

“Ambivalent, for sure,” she suddenly said.

“No, suspicious,” he said.

“Huh?” Ellen asked.

“Wait, what?” Keats responded. 

They stared at each other in confusion, both trying to understand what they were talking about. 

“Ambivalent,” Keats repeated, studying her face. “Why would you attribute yourself with such a trait?”

“Me? No, that’s how I would describe you,” she said. “Why, were you thinking about me when you said ‘suspicious’?”

“Clearly,” he said smoothly, smothering his slight bewilderment at her comment. He broke eye contact and shuffled some papers together on the desk, realizing he was staring at Ellen’s face far too much. Ambivalent? Turning his head to inspect his apartment, he continued “To what failure in my security system do I owe for your present company?”

“The other day while I was in Faery Realm, Belgae suggested I come over here. He said you would be out and mentioned that you would leave the door unlocked for me,” she said, tilting her head to the side. 

Keats adjusted his glasses, “I don’t see why I would feel compelled to do such a thing.”

“Then why did you leave it unlocked in the first place? I wouldn’t have come in otherwise. Perhaps you made a mistake when you left,” she replied, crossing her arms.

“That’s unlikely, I—,” he trailed off. Of course, it wasn’t him that left the door open. However, he was not the one to leave last. A certain invisible colleague had been quite the courteous gentleman and held the door open for Keats before closing it behind them. 

“Belgae, that bastard,” he cursed, turning away and claiming Ellen’s usual chair as his own. He loosened his tie, thinking. _Messenger Unwittingly Breaks Into a Netherworld Realm, Misinformation Mastermind Can Go Eat a Bag of—_

Ellen pressed the purple cozy mug against Keats’ temple, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up at her, noting the matching yellow mug in her hand and her far-too-pleased smile.

“Here, this is the reason why I came back,” she said, plopping the mug into his hands. “I’m sure I’ve got it this time. I even asked a German Tee Shoppe how to brew it properly.”

Keats gazed down at his own reflection in the tea’s golden surface. He glanced up at Ellen. She seemed to be beaming, the image fortified by the late afternoon light streaming through his usually-closed windows that gave her an effervescent outline. 

Staring way too much. Again. Keats’ grip tightened on the mug and he looked back down, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. The distinct taste of earl grey filled his mouth without a single hint of over-steeped bitterness. The tea was the perfect temperature for drinking. Even the texture of the cozy’s yarn was ideal, just the right wool for softness and grip without being itchy. As he swallowed, the pleasant fruity taste lingered in his mouth. 

“It’s…,” he started, enjoying the lasting notes of the tea on his tongue. He looked up at her, watching as she clutched her mug close to her heart and squeezed it. The look in her eye was so expectant, glinting even. Was that the hopeful or mischievous kind? Keats couldn’t tell and it worried him. The tea was splendid and he ought to offer her some sort of accolade, but stringing the thoughts together was so much harder for him when the subject involved abstract thoughts. Such insubstantial things weren’t worth the time, after all. It wasn’t due to his shortcomings with emotional processing, or that he wasn’t used to any attention and that he never had a reason to try to express himself on a personal basis. This is why he was a journalist, not a philosopher. At least, that’s what he told himself. He cleared his throat, “…not bad.” 

Good one, Keats. Real critical analysis fit for a snippy advice column on the back of the Sunday paper. Maybe. 

Ellen watched his face as he tried another sip, causing her to grin. A success, through and through! He even acknowledged her for a moment, which was a certain improvement. His brow would scrunch, as if he found a fly in the tea, but his lips also almost slipped into a content smile before he hid his face by gazing down intently at the mug. A face like stew, for sure. Ellen thought she could see peeks of other emotional ingredients but they would sink back beneath his brooding broth, not bubbling to the surface again.

“Is it finally better than yours?” Ellen asked, after a time. “The tea, I mean. You said my tea tasted like dish water before and that yours suited you just fine.” _Not that yours was any better_ , Ellen remembered bitterly as she recalled their rather unpleasant first attempt trying each other’s tea.

Keats had been grazing his thumb over the cozy when the question was raised and he replied dismissively, “Just shy of marginally close, I’m afraid.”

“Good,” she smiled. “I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”

“That paraphrasing is quite off the mark, Ellen,” he commented. “I have no particular fondness for or against your tea.”

“Your mug is near empty,” she noted.

Keats scoffed, standing up and brushing past her, “Idly sipping from a beverage cup is barely an indicator of superior tea. I drank your tea just as I would a brew of my own. The motions are more mechanical than anything.” He placed his mug on his desk and turned back around to face her.

“Your evidence is lacking,” he challenged. Ellen walked up to him, lining up toe to toe and gazing at his face. She shoved her yellow mug into his chest, forcing him to catch it as she sniffed indignantly. Reaching behind him, she pulled several folders and pages off the table as the thesaurus tumbled to the ground. Standing on her tip toes, she put her face near his and looked him straight in the eye. Keats raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Her eyes darted behind him, daring him to turn around. 

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the cozy mug in the same place as before. In the space where Ellen had removed the pages, there was now an uncovered square of desk space. In said space was a single white mug that was previously obscured by the disorganized paper piles. He cleared his throat, not saying a thing. Returning his gaze, Keats was met by a very smug and very close Ellen. 

“How kind of you to locate my mugs for me, but you must really spare me the—,” he began, only to be interrupted.

“Look inside it,” she said.

“What?”

She repeated, taking a step back to give him space, “Look.”

He leaned ever-so-slightly over to peer just beyond the rim of the mug. Two-thirds of the mug contained some dark and clearly brewed-to-bitter-death tea. It was barely touched before it was completely abandoned beneath its paper tomb.

“You know,” Ellen said, walking up to the desk and sliding the other mug next to the near-empty one. “For someone who claimed to idly drink his own tea with equal vigor as my own, yours is still quite full. I’m surprised that your claim is so inconsistent, Keats.”

He almost said something, but she already addressed it, “And don’t use time against me. I saw this mug last time I was here, but the papers hadn’t covered it yet. It might still have been warm then, even. When was I last here, Keats? Was it three weeks? Or a month?” She nudged him with her elbow.

Keats felt himself getting warmer and he turned away, avoiding Ellen’s victorious smirk. He grumbled to himself, taking a sip from the mug in his hand before he realized it was Ellen’s. He could have sworn he could hear the damn girl’s arrogant smile behind him. 

He handed the mug back over, not turning to face her, “Just take your tea and leave me to work, Ellen.”

“No, you keep it,” she said, pushing his hand back gently. “I think you’ll need it more. I can make myself another cup any time.” 

That got him. He put the mug on the desk, grabbing Ellen’s arm and hauling her towards the door, “I do not intend to spend the rest of my day by having my tea brewing skills mocked. I have work to do and you are keeping me from it.” 

Ellen said with an encouraging voice with of a hint of a laugh behind it, “I’m sure you’ll get better with a little practice. I can always come back to make you another cup.” Keats gave an exasperated sigh and rubbed the back of his head, yanking the door open. He ushered her out, pushing her by the small of her back.

“Enough of you,” he said. 

“I’ll see you soon, Keats,” she laughed. “Thanks for the victory.”

He rolled his eyes, “Thanks for the tea.” He then promptly shut the door. Damn that girl, getting under his skin. He grudgingly walked back to his desk, picking up the yellow mug once again. He might as well not waste it.

Now alone, he inspected the kitchen space. The tea strainers still sat in the sink. He opened the cupboard and found a bag of tea with a note on it: “In case you want to try. –Ellen”. He shut the cupboard immediately, ignoring the taunt. 

Taking a seat at his desk, he sighed and rubbed his eyes. Writing would clear his mind. Glancing at his typewriter, he noticed something on his previously blank sheet of paper. 

Taking the sheet, he read the single line of text along the top.

_“Local Netherworld Writer Likes Tea, Too ‘Cool’ to Admit It,”_ the page said. Staring at it, Keats crumpled it up and tossed it in a drawer, the same one with a certain crayon drawing inside of it, before shutting it closed.

He slumped in his chair, thinking. Perhaps, he could use another cup of tea after his current mug. Naturally he would have to make another cup soon to quench his thirst. Maybe a lot of cups. Not for practicing or anything of that sort, it was a very large thirst. If Ellen came back, which he was sure she would, maybe he would even brew some tea for her and prove his tea was perfectly good. Better, even. 

Glancing down at the yellow cozied mug in his hand, he saw the light pink marks left from Ellen’s lipstick still on the rim. What a troublesome Messenger. Not that he cared, only cared to the extent that a Guardian was obligated to do so. 

Definitely didn’t care. 

Couldn’t be bothered at all. 

This is why, he told himself, that he just could not be bothered to rotate the mug as he raised it to his lips and took a slow sip.


	2. Sharp, Cutting Angles (With Even Softer Sides)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I said it would be indefinitely updating so here's another little adventure installment ~ For those that are returning, welcome back! And for new additions, glad to have you here for the journey! I hope y'all enjoy this incredibly self-indulgent chapter :D

Keats was not the type to give into the whims of his Messenger often. Well…openly at least. He’d roll his eyes and protest, although he never truly minded even if she had that _unreasonable_ sparkle in her eyes. He’d refuse—and relent—in predictable ways.

It was simply his nature.

But sometimes, Ellen didn’t need his snarky journalist tendencies; she needed him. When she had no energy to mess around with banter and half-hearted resistance, he needed to be there. In those moments, Keats opened the door to his Netherworld and gladly let her in (although, he would be the last one to openly admit it).

The afternoon light had spilled into his office as it always did, Keats too absorbed in the words he typed to pay any mind to the concept of time. If his Netherworld had been any larger and if any other sound besides the hammers of his typewriter had filled the air, he would have completely missed the soft knock on his door.

With a groan, Keats pushed himself away from his work and went to greet his unexpected visitor. He expected Belgae to come in with a bottle of something strong hidden in his coat and an invitation to enjoy some suspiciously acquired libations. Considering the time and frequency of said event, it was a good guess. Imagine the surprise on his face when he was wrong.

“Ellen,” he said, staring at her on the opposite side of the door. She wore a lop-sided hoodie and a pair of pajama pants, her hair a loose braid over her shoulder.

Kneading her hands together, she looked up and gave him a small smile, “Sorry, is now a bad time?”

In that moment, Keats identified three fundamental things wrong with the situation.

Number one: Ellen never knocked softly. She always called out to him and made it clear who to expect when he opened the door. Subtlety was not a common trait for her. Or at all.

Number two: Ellen did not have small smiles. Her expressions were unapologetic and grandiose, no one had to guess how she was feeling by looking at her face. He struggled to understand what brought her there and for a moment he understood why she got frustrated at his lack of expressions. Not knowing what the other person thought was excruciating.

Number three: Ellen never bothered to ask if she was interrupting anything. Ever. Keats kept track of time according to when his Messenger barged in last. There was no such thing as a “bad time” in his Netherworld, it was either time with Ellen or time without. Based off her appearance, she came in a hurry, too.

Without a word, he stepped aside and let her in. As he closed the door behind her, he grabbed his purple coat off its hook and draped it on her small frame. Wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders, he quietly guided her to the couch in the side room.  Ellen gave him a thankful smile, leaning into him and tugging the coat tighter around herself.

“Get comfortable, I’ll make tea,” he said. Giving him a nod, Ellen settled herself on the red upholstered couch as he hurried to the kitchen. Looking around, she snickered to herself at the cluttered space. The familiarity of his mess was comforting and made her at ease. Sounds of clinking ceramic and a hissing kettle leaked from the kitchenette, subdued in a pleasant way. It felt like home whenever she entered this tucked away Netherworld. She fiddled with the lapels of his coat idly, waiting for her Guardian without urgency.

As Keats drummed his fingers against the counter as the tea steeped, he tried to deduce what happened in nervous anticipation. Was she hurt? Did she fight with a friend? Just one of those days or nights? What time was it on her side anyway? He sighed, shaking himself and focusing on the task at hand. She’d tell him if she needed to. He needed to be present to listen if she did. With a precise swipe, he plucked the tea strainers out of the mugs and carried them over to his Messenger.

Ellen only knew she was dozing when she was roused by the smell of earl grey punctuating the ambient scents of leather and dusty pages.

“If all you needed was a nap, was coming to me necessary?” She stirred, looking up at him with a grateful look. Having spent the past few weeks studiously making cups of tea, Keats had to suppress the sly smirk on his lips as he offered her a piping hot mug.

“You kept the sweater cozies on them,” she said, some cheer returning to her as she accepted the tea.

“How could I leave out such an essential part of the experience?” He took a seat next to her, his arm returning to her shoulders.  Without needing any prompting, she nuzzled into the space between his arm and torso.

She took a sip and breathed a sigh of relief, "Thank you, Keats. It's perfect."  
  
"I suppose I'll save the 'I win' for when you're feeling better," he said, hiding a smug grin behind the rim of his mug.   
  
Rolling her eyes, she nudged an elbow into his ribs as she continued to take careful sips of the steaming liquid. But she had to concede: he did extremely well in mimicking the last cup she had made for him.   
  
He sighed, closing his eyes as he rested against the plush couch, "It's hardly entertaining to claim victory over someone when said person is already down, you know." He cracked one eye open and glanced at her.  
  
She tittered, "I take it that this is your way of saying if I need to talk about something, I can?"

“I’m a writer, Ellen. Readers are always welcome to have their own interpretations of what I say,” he said with a shrug. “If someone had something to talk about, I suppose I would be listening.”

“And if someone wasn’t ready to talk about anything and you ended up doing nothing?” Her tone was nonchalant, but her grip on the mug suggested otherwise. Her fingers dug restlessly into the yarn of the cozy, loosening the cable stitches with her fidgeting.

He squeezed her shoulder, “Then I’d do an excellent job of doing nothing. Must you always doubt my abilities, Ellen?”

“I’m sorry the thought crossed my mind,” she said, pulling her knees up to her chest and settling comfortably against the couch and her Guardian. “If I mess up while doing nothing, please share your expertise with me.”

“Share my expertise with you?” Keats drank from his mug, mulling the thought over, “Normally, I decline such requests, but seeing that it’s coming from you, I can make an exception.”

Ellen laughed, some of the tension in her body releasing, “When did your edges become so soft, Keats?” She turned her head, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“My good graces are a favor in return for the _tea_ ,” he said, taking a noisy sip to emphasize his point. “It has nothing to do with being softened up with personal bias.”

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve made you into a big softy.”

Looking away, he scoffed, “What a cocky Messenger.” Leaning forward, she curiously peered at his face and noted the pink on his cheeks. Cocky, but not necessarily wrong. Ellen burst into a fit of giggles, putting her mug down on the side table to avoid spilling any.

Keats rolled his eyes, plunking his mug down next to hers, “Laughing qualifies as unsuccessfully doing nothing, you know.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said as she composed herself. “I’ll do better to learn from your example. Be gentle with me.”

He hummed, pulling his coat tighter around her shoulders. Ellen was cocooned beneath the purple suede, tucked in place by the fabric and his arm. She gave him a smile, completing the look. The whole ensemble was immaculate on her. Dare he think it? Was his lip twitching (into a smile of all things)?

Banishing the thought, he rolled an appropriate disinterested sigh out of mouth and covered any stray feelings with a familiar motion. Ellen yawned, sleepily leaning against him. He adjusted to allow her to settle more comfortably.

“Keats?” Ellen tested sound against the comfortable silence, as if assessing if she liked one more than the other.

“Ellen,” he said as a neutral response, allowing her to pick whether or not she would drop it without fear of judgement of either decision. After a moment of finding her words, she continued.

“It feels childish to say, but school has been taking a toll on me. A group project and presentation. On top of that, I submitted my portfolio and the critique was a nightmare. It all felt rushed,” she sighed, twiddling her thumbs. “There was nothing horrific about either, but I just constantly feel like I could have been doing more or at least doing better.”

“Hm,” he mused, thinking over her words. “Everyone could be doing more. You do not need to carry such a burden on yourself alone. We’re all guilty of never doing enough.”

“What more do I need to do?” Ellen asked, tugging at the fabric of his shirt. “Saying I have a lot going on feels like a tired excuse. All my mistakes seem redundant, yet I learn nothing new.”

“Ellen, I repeated the same monologue to myself for years until you finally coaxed me out of this place. It takes time to learn something,” he said, shaking his head. “You invest yourself in your growth. It’s admirable, not loathsome.”

“But my own ambitions will be the death of me,” she said, groaning. “How do you even put up with me at this point? I didn’t even come here properly dressed! I tried going to sleep before deciding I wanted to see you and came here without thinking.”

“I’ve fought in battles with Folklore while wearing a hideous Christmas sweater, I’d say we’ve both dressed more inappropriately for more important things,” he said nonchalantly.

“It was seasonally appropriate,” she said, pursing her lips as she recalled the memory. “You still managed to pull it off, I might add. I currently look like the self-fulfilled prophecy of a starved artist.”

“I thrive on self-loathing. You were wise to come to me, not foolish, and I encourage you to do so for proper venting. You’ll be hard pressed for enough complaints for me to grow tired of you.” He offered, gesturing to the room, “I’ve got space to spare, regardless.”

“Someone as ambivalent as Keats actually cares to invite me for company?” She giggled, “I never thought I’d live to hear it. I’ll talk your ear off if I took you up on that offer.”

“For your sake, I’m sure I’ll manage,” he said, waving it off. “Instead of doing more, do something different for just yourself. I can’t have my Messenger neglecting her own health.”

“Something different…,” she trailed off, deep in thought. He gently rubbed his thumb against her arm as they settled into a comfortable silence. Not her usual self or situation—different—but he found that this was nice in its own way.

Ellen looked down at her hands, inspecting their shape. Places were scrubbed red where acrylic once clung stubbornly to the surface. Her nails had specks of old paint trapped underneath them. Maybe she was due for some proper self-care. She shifted her gaze to her Guardian’s hands, larger and more rugged yet graceful still. Clean, too. Turning her head towards him, she said, “Keats, I’d like to try something different.”

“Be my guest,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned for either of our well-beings?”

“I’ll start small, nothing scary. I’ll need you to hold something for me, is that ok?” She asked, fidgeting with her hands and looking at him expectantly.

“I suppose I have no grounds to refuse,” he said, offering his other hand to her. “Start as small as you need.”

“Thank you,” she said brightly, slipping her fingers between his own. She clasped her hand around his and smiled. He stared at his no longer empty hand and then back at her.

“Is this no good?” He saw the worry flash across her face. She fretted, “Should I have gone smaller? Perhaps just the pinky would have been a better start.”

“It’s…not bad. Different, but not bad,” he said with a shrug. “And a bit contrived, were you trying to be smooth?”

“Were you not charmed? I was sure it would work on you,” Ellen said, sticking her tongue out.

He shook his head, incredulous. She laughed, and he felt her body relax against him. The usual expression finally returned to her, some of his own tension releasing. Again, he covered it with a sigh.

Resting her head against his shoulder, her eyelashes fluttered as she began to drift off. He glanced at the mugs, “The tea will get cold.”

“Cold? But it’s so warm,” she said, squeezing his hand. He softly tutted, but did not disagree.

The change of pace was…pleasant. Self-indulgent (on her part, of course) and different from his norm, but he was willing to do whatever his Messenger needed him for. Even if that was holding her hand as she fell asleep.

Hell, if she would take small steps to try something different, then so would he. He had to keep up with her, after all. He shifted his gaze to her sleeping face.

Something different.

Keats squeezed her hand, grazing her knuckles with his fingertips, and felt his heartbeat increase as she squeezed back. Knowing her eyes were closed, he allowed himself to smile as he sighed contently.

Small steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed seeing Keats and Ellen being more vulnerable with each other. While I enjoy writing Keats' very tsundere character, it can be limiting to the development of a relationship and I'd like to think he knows when to cool it because his concern for Ellen is the only thing greater than his own stubbornness. And I'd like to think Ellen knows that she can safely open up to him and has slowly taught him how to be ok with reciprocating that openness at his own pace. Like in these smaller moments. 
> 
> As a side note, I'm in nursing school now, woo! And I've had many a moment when I wished I had a bara monster Guardian to comfort me, too TTnTT alas, you can't win 'em all so this chapter was in the works for some time, but I only just got a big enough breather to tidy it up and post it. Thank you for being part of this lovely fandom with me! 
> 
> I may post a ~zestier~ stand alone fic for these two soon after this so keep an eye out!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll continue to write these stand-alone one-shot chapters and put them all here. I may allude to previous chapters, but there is no plot to be found, just lots of 100% guilty-domestic-and-mundane-yet-oddly-satisfying pleasure ~ I hope y'all enjoyed this little tea-escapade, I'll be sure to add more to this series in the future. Keats and Ellen are a lot of fun to write :D I'd love to hear what you all thought and thanks for reading!


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